Dated 1432

Dated 1432
and here I am
looking...
                       If the artist
                       could only look back
                       too,
me admiring...
Transfixed.
And amongst
a lavish soiree
a veritas bouquet
                       death and life
displayed        and splayed
out-
                       hung crucified-
                       elaborated suffering, of the antiquity.

The lives
in the stills.
The (pro)posed lives
in the pastorals.
The captured chrysalis,
by stroke.
                        In wealthy company of all this
excessive impression
is-tic motif-
                        the money felt misplaced,
so it said subjectively.

And those people holding place
in the Portraiture room
                        -No Photographs-
needed.
                        the encounter is etched,
                        with abrasive stares-
over time.

On the walls
                        the writing of fates
                        in gilt frames
                        of a frozen time
                        of a minds eye
that was never there
but now,
                       while I am looking back
and there.





Image of painting by Cornelis Bisschop  (not the one referenced in this poem) Allegory on the Raid at Chatham dated 1667 [Public domain, Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Teaching us (poetry)

Her teacher told her a telling tale
of typical teenage turmoil
her own tale
and it was all true.

Learn from me, don't do as I did,
learn the lesson the easy way,
as tutors typically say.

Touched and teary
by the story
she thought she might
want to write a poem
with all the emotional vividry...

She mused on this
as the class continued.
But then,
the teacher yawned
and apologized
for her dreary demeanor
that day, distracting her
another way.

The teacher then explained
how her little baby boy,
had nightmares the night before
keeping her awake until 4,
it was about dinosaurs
inside his pillowcase.

She scribbled all this frantically,
the poem coming faster than she
could write.
She missed the end of the lecture,
but got the point,
she learned a lesson
she will never forget,
poetry is taught in many ways.




Image of painting by Franz Nölken [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Dumb Smart Phones

Unplugged used to mean,
it is not plugged into the socket.
Unplugged on MTV
meant acoustic music, once.
Unplug-to Oprah
means meditation.

Off the grid means-
off the grid.
Where is the grid again?
Everywhere there is signal.
Off the grid is no signal.
No signal means no bars
no bars means off the grid.

No signal means no dial tone,
no signal means no sign of life,
no sign of life means it is dead.

My teen daughters phone died.
She is mourning
her loss of
social life.
She is off the grid
but fully charged
and still getting signals, stronger now
and coming back to (nonvirtual) life.





 Photo taken By Ashraf Siddiqui [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Gusty or gutsy

If the wind would stop
for a moment, I would know
better to be still.



Image of painting by Winslow Homer [Public domain], The Dinner Horn (1870)via Wikimedia Commons.

Famished (i am)

Drink as though you've dreamt
in cool streams of aqua vita.
Devour what you crave
under red flame and red raw.
Indulge in your ingenious ideas,
swoon in the sweet murmurs
of language and lingering lyric,
encouraging and nourishing.
Listen to those.
Ingest for pleasure,
erupt with contagion
-for that I came-
-thou art that-
but You.
Just Now
meaning
Everything.
There is nothing more.



-for that I came- is from the poem What I Do Is Me-For That I Came by Ray Bradbury and -thou art that- is used often by Aldous Huxley (I am certain the all other words have also been used before by someone somewhere sometime somehow in some(other)way as well).


Image of painting by Ramon Casas i Carbó [Public domain],c. 1892 via Wikimedia Commons.

Thin air

The clouds kept 

getting sucked up

in tall towers,

weaving spindles

of cotton wands.

It makes

ponder,

it makes

wonder,

it caused pause

to feel for my feet,

small as they seemed

from up there.

Image By GAURAV MAROO (MY DIGI CAM) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Rime on the windows

Excuses? A few...
I denied-
I plied,
I tried, I lied
I tried to hide,
I cried,
I sighed and then
tried to clarify
why
I might (not)
write more tonight,
despite the slightly dim light,
(not) quite bright
enough
and (not) the (right) stuff
I could do
instead of (not) facing you...

And I steer clear
when I fear you are near
my space, in my place
if you hear a tear,
while fiction is lurking
late-wait
my dear,
it was just sincerely
me.
Wrestling with
preservation, conservation,
constriction, restriction to never do-
well- do not tell all
that has made me unwell...I wont
and dont.
When I go to melt the frost,
I am lost,
my fingertips won't melt the ice...
why a window if it wont show
the way out? I doubt you know,
since the rime grows on itself,
and swallowed the last word.


composed 3/29/16

Image By Hydraulicsuperman (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.